There, long ago, when we had space, and the air was pure, there we lived: us, the whole tribe, the children, the very old, the wise and the fools. At night we were safe, the sea protected us. We had many friends, and few enemies. We were poor, and strong.
The cave was our home, where we lived, loved, and died. The world wasn’t ours, but we knew our place, and this place was here, on the threshold. Far beyond was eternity.
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt#108
He kept seeing himself, in his youth, through dreams that did not have the shape of memories, in a role of a quiet spirit, an observer of his past life. Only near dawn, did the spirit at last morphed into himself, an old man lying in pain, aspiring to peace…
Picture: Gaston Xhardez, “Création”, photomontage, 1958 – via les-sources-du-nilles-sources-du-nil.tumblr.com
Inspired by https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/controversy/
“No, you won’t do that, and as you well know, if you did, you’d be on your own!” The statement sounded pretty final, so I stayed silence: from then on I’d have to demonstrate I understood where I stood, in the order of things.
And I did. So we are, in a state of cease-fire, neither war, nor peace. I have made-up my mind of course, but I won’t risk a return to this controversy: I value the silence, the long lazy mornings, the quiet evenings. Is this wisdom? Or is it cowardice?
Picture: Orange, Helsinki, 2015, via osmaharvilahtiosmaharvilahti.tumblr.com
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
I can read your mind: “what price for peace?” is your question. I also know your answer.
You are of the old school. Under attack, you fire one warning shot, then, no question of taking prisoners. Of course we disagree. But, as time flows, the more outrages, the more victims, and the less my own arguments convince me.
I know, one day, I will also think: “no price is to high for peace”, and I too will follow orders.
Image: Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-R98680,_Besprechung_Himmler_mit_Müller,_Heydrich,_Nebe,_Huber.jpg
BreadA place to rest…
What heart yonder, falls
so gently in this field.
Soft as Lilly petals and
sweet as jasmine
On the vine.
Such gentle curves give
The soul a place to rest
The mind a place to race
And the heart a home all it’s own
With the voice of an angel
Does she call my name from
The night sky.
Scribed by stars with auroras
robe to warm her silken wings.
How can one smile
One gentle touch
Give the heart
Such murmur and rested peace
Benjamin
2013
So I set off just after dawn, and an hour later I am walking the narrow street, deserted at this time. The chill of the morning air seems sharper here and I walk faster until I reach the long wall and the small door. The door is unlocked and as I cross the threshold it shuts closed behind me. “Come in Julian” says Gabrielle’s voice and I slowly reach the end of the corridor. Gabrielle and another person stand in the room I know so well, in front of the bay window. It takes me a few seconds to recognise Elga. Gabrielle signals me to take a seat on the sofa near the chimney. As on the first time I came to this house a wood fire burns brightly, projecting an eery light in the room. The two women are sitting in front of me, their backs to the window. Elga looks now much different from the attractive creature Sarah and I met several months back. Her long black hair is wrapped in a complicated bun, held by a deep blue metallic ring. But her clothes… She wears a grey suit reminiscent of the spartan Mao-Tse-Tung tunique, but well cut, buttoned up to her chin, which fits her athletic body well.
I am waiting for one of them to speak, and remain silent. We observe each other for long minutes. Then Gabrielle addresses me, in a slow voice intended to convince.
“Thank you for joining us at such short notice Julian. We have to share with you, and through you with your friends if you judge it wise, of a decision the Coven took a few hours – that is for you a few weeks – ago.” Gabrielle pauses and I look at Elga, who is not smiling but, rather, looking at her companion as if in deep reflection.
“The Coven has now realised the inanity of suggesting a violent solution to what we see as your predicament, and to the risks this may present to us in the future. Equally we understand how unpractical it would be to impose a ban on your ways to reproduce yourselves…” I am waiting for what is, inevitably, going to follow, but I am wrong, have been wrong all the time.
“Elga is going to explain what we are going to do, as you know she represents the Coven here, you could say, she’s in charge of this sector of your galaxy on our behalf…”
Elga then speaks, and her voice conveys immense authority, and a slight veil of impatience.
“You know that Gabrielle and I have had some difficulties in convincing many of our own about the value of giving you and your species time to evolve further. In part our problem is due to your use of atomics, and the continuous violence which appears to characterise the way you attempt – and fail – to resolve conflicts.” I am aware of Elga’s eyes firmly fixed on me, of her beautiful face showing nothing but an implacable resolution. “We have considered many ways we could intervene without destroying you. In truth, for many of us, the survival of your beautiful planet is far more important than yours, as a species. However we have concluded that attempting one without the other may prove costly, for you, and for us.” Elga pauses, and I am thinking of the meteorite in the skies of Russia. “So, we have come to this conclusion, unanimously: we have to intervene directly in your affairs, neutralising some of the fatal moves some of your governments may be tempted to make, in one word, practise what you would call a ‘humanitarian mission’ – with a difference, we have the means of obliterating any resistance.” We are silent, I am listening to the fire, reliving our previous meetings, and Gabrielle finally speaks:
“We have 100% coverage of all of mankind’s present conflict areas and strategic sites. As you have probably guessed we have spent the past few years developing an extensive – shall we say – spy network of a fine mesh of which your science cannot conceive. Suffice to say that the same mesh can be used to destroy weaponry of any size and power, from long range missiles down to a single hand gun. “
Elga smiles and adds, suddenly back to a more congenial stance: “We knew you would understand Julian. Now, what we want you to do, is to explain the situation to your friends. Melissa has been informed and she will help you prepare the drafts.”
I am waiting, the drafts of what? Elga resumes, now smiling broadly: “You are going to write to the ten or so top newspapers in your world, explaining the situation in your own words. You should know now, that people are going to take what you say seriously.”
The whole story is told there.
“La liberté n’offre qu’une chance d’être meilleur, la servitude n’est que la certitude de devenir pire.” ~ Albert Camus
A wall painting by Franz Xaver Simm from the Caucasus Museum in Tbilisi. The original painting has not survived. Date 1881 Source Hermann Roskoschny, 1845-1898. Das asiatische Russland, Leipzig: Gressner & Schramm, 1884
Perhaps one day – how far in the future is a matter for speculation – it will be suggested that parthenogenesis is the way forward for the human species on its way to the Stars. In my novel, The Page, the alien race poised to colonise Earth, offers it to the female gender, arguing, with some reason, that exterminating the males would be a favour to the Universe in general, Earth in particular, and free them from the kind of slavery no law or feminist revolution has so far succeeded in doing. The unanimous reply is: “Please go – and clone yourselves.” This may be yet further evidence supporting Paulhan’s idea of “bonheur dans l’esclavage”…
Yet you are irreplaceable, even if we might be. Not only are we hopeless at bearing children – pace “mummy” Schwarzenneger – let us banish for ever the thought of a male only world, even if biologically such an enormity was conceivable: it would be hell, even for the more softly inclined among us. Who would we copy, whose lingerie would we try with rising emotions? Whose panties would we rub our stubbled cheeks with, dreaming of the thousand and one nights delights? Whose lovely ways of walking would we try to emulate, us, the primates, occasionally goose-stepping morons, of otherwise poor artistic tastes? And, worst of all, whose slender necks would wear those sober collars, emblematic of our deepest dreams?
“Neanderthal rising” is an hallucination lurking in my “writer-in-learning” ’s mind: an apocalypse of primal beasts rushing back to the stone age in a flurry of females being dragged by their (long and gorgeous) hair… and frightened mammoths…
But there are biological and physical facts: a different – but then, are two brains ever similar? – wiring of the synapses, longevity (a crucial quality for deep space travel)… and of course the potential for asexual reproduction. If a (presumably female) Columbus of an unfathomable future wished for “peace on board” the proverbial ship, what would be her best bet? A mixed gender crew soon rioting into roman orgies and muscular hand to hand fights, or a spartan and disciplined amazon crew of jar-headed female warriors, athletic, evidently lesbian, and, well… just tremendously sexy to this Neanderthal’s imagination. Peace.
